Latest poems, page 6
Bacchic geometry [Geometrie bahică]
Fed with sweet milk and yogurt quite a lot
A Greek whose mind was brilliant and divine,
By looking at two dots at once he thought
The shortest of the roads was the straight line.
This axiom, accepted as we see,
And which today all people can explain,
Was valid in the past and still will be,
But only for the horizontal plane.
And if you want some knowledge to derive,
When think of horizontal planes you'll find,
That nature doesn't feel for them a drive
And so, they're just a whim of the Greek mind.
Instead of milk we drink “Madeira” wine
And all of us can easily observe
That on the sphere each carefully drawn line
Stays never straight, but turns into a curve.
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poem by Al. O. Teodoreanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Ending [Final]
The memories invade my brain
As crows in poplars build their nest,
While clouds go by and come again,
Like smoke, above the lake and plain,
And never rest.
It's gone the autumn with its shine
Of faded green an vivid gold,
With purple grapes, which look so fine,
And now the park, my soul divine,
Are bare and cold.
The frozen lake will be resigned
When the last leaf falls to the ground
And wind through branches gently blows,
So that you know you left behind
A field of snow, which makes no sound,
And wailing crows.
poem by Al. O. Teodoreanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Morning [Dimineaţă]
The last star now fades and leaves.
Like a dragon on a cloud,
The hot sun in silence weaves,
Like a spider, its gold shroud.
With its starry wings stretched out
The night full of visions flies
To some distant lands, no doubt,
Like those mythic butterflies.
All the sweepers on the lanes,
Who remove the night's dark fumes,
Watch how quickly come the cranes,
Leaning gently on their brooms.
With their fiddles in a case,
In the armpits fasten tight,
Through the dust, round-shouldered, pace
Fiddlers waiting for the light.
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poem by Al. O. Teodoreanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Cute small glasses [Drăgălaşe păhărele]
Cute small glasses with short stem
Lay in front of me with joy,
Pour wine sweetish into them,
Do enjoy!
Let us drink up without fear,
If one hates it, let him say,
And instead to have some beer,
Drink your way!
Who gets dizzy and can't think
On the floor may start to creep,
And when glasses break or clink,
Let them sleep!
Let's cut short the talking then,
Life is brief, life is forlorn,
So, let's drink until again
Comes the morn.
poem by Al. O. Teodoreanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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The frogs [Broaştele]
Up in my poplar moon lays down its nest,
And like a raven night begins to fly.
Its wings throw stars, but these don't get to rest,
They're sipped by frogs, which by the ponds do lie.
Because the frogs engulf such bits of night,
Then in the ponds they dive for having fun,
Stirring the water with their bellies white
In which so many stars melt one by one.
poem by Al. O. Teodoreanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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If I could (II) [De-aş putea (II)]
If I could reveal to thee
All the love I use to hide,
Time and space, I guarantee,
That in it they would reside.
And if blessed I were sometimes
With words handsome from above
To assure you in sweet rhymes
Of my hot and gentle love,
Time and space would linger here
Without willing to depart
For they'd like so much to hear
The confession of my heart.
poem by Veronica Micle, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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If I could (I) [De-aş putea (I)]
If I could but briefly seize
The wings of the passing breeze
I would quickly fly out then
In the world, and from above,
That I've cared for you, my love,
I would tell you once again.
Mercy wouldn't try to gain,
But if you could see the pain
That is always on my face,
Like the hasty breeze, I say,
All your hate would go away
And you'd show me warmth and grace.
poem by Veronica Micle, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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The alchemmist [Alchimistul]
I looked for that deficient gold
In all the test tubes on the shelves,
And in the flicker pale and cold
I hoped to see the hosts of elves.
When chandeliers spread the light
As if the castle was aflame,
In salamanders hazy-white,
I found the pattern of the dame.
Through me the fire will harass
Your coward planet, without worth,
For with my magnifying glass
I want to burn this wicked earth.
poem by Al. O. Teodoreanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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A gentle breeze which makes an ineffable sound [Hay una brisa de inefable ruido]
A gentle breeze which makes an ineffable sound
comes from the chilly ridge in an abrupt descent
to tell me you arrive, by spreading all around,
for corn fields are in bloom, a most delightful scent.
Dispersed on the wide plain, excited I would tell,
there's an uncanny ghost, which from the distance peeps;
my eyes can't see it though, but I can hear too well
how furtively somewhere among the palm trees creeps.
And like a sob that comes from unseen jungles now,
it wants to soothe my heart, which is immersed in grief,
my temple does caress, lays kisses on my brow;
and through this female touch of which I am aware
I feel how starts to shake and jerk like a small leaf
my being in the morn, when breathe the fresh cool air.
poem by José Eustasio Rivera, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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O, Death [O, moarte]
O, Death! Do come and creep
Into my empty bosom and put at ease my brain
To hear the howling tempest, which seems to sing in pain,
How strolls throughout the desert, pushed by the winds insane,
I'd like to rest for ever...To fall,
To fall asleep.
poem by Veronica Micle, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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